The Age of Innocence
by Sera dy Relandrant
Summary: Ysandre de la Courcel, Dauphine of Terre d'Ange, and Phedre of House Cereus, a whore's get, at the age of seven.


**_Chastity_**

_"_Did the Comté de Alcor find his pleasure in Cereus House last night?" the Bryony adept's voice is slick with indifference. Feigned, naturally. The Comté's purse of ducats is as heavy as his other purse is light.

"Aye," Suriah says smoothly. "Bryony will mourn his loss."

"He is... temperamental," the other says sulkily. Phèdre thinks she's very young. She pities her, for a fool. But then of course, Bryony is not famed for it's subtlety. Cereus leads, where courtly nuances are concerned. "From Balm to Valerian, he has flitted his ducats, without lingering for naught but a week at any House. Why does Cereus think she may keep him?"

Suriah's golden lashes dip over her eyes, a secret smile playing at the corners of her lips. Mocking, mirthful. She is the Dowayne's protégé, through and through. Ellyn, exquisite and dainty as a china shepherdess, leans over and whispers into Phedre's ear, "Coaxing the turtle." She demonstrates. Suriah glances over and wonders at the incongruence - Ellyn's little white hands and the crudeness of the maneuver. Still, children must learn.

"How vulgar," Phèdre murmurs delightedly.

"How effective," Ellyn whispers back.

**000**

A suitable Grand Mistress would have to be found for the Dauphine. The Duchesse de la Chernobog might do - she was a L'Envers cousin, skilled in the ways of the world.

"Perhaps too skilled," Ganelon de la Courcel said dryly. "Amédée's reputation precedes her."

His aide is appropriately astonished. Such a gracious hostess, so poised and charming, so renowned... Oh well, yes, her maidservants were contracted for their skills in flower-arranging and in the art of the _languishment_. Well, that proved her to be only human of course, one could not see to every last detail of one's soirées and a really clever maid was worth a fortune...

"What concerns me is not who arranges her flowers but the other purpose for which are servants are contracted."

Oh _that_. Majesty, we are but D'Angeline.

"The Akkadians will not see it thus. By engaging a woman of... licentious reputation as Grand Mistress for our heiress-" He shakes his head. Clear-cut, decisive. No. "There must be no blot on her reputation, and the sanctity of her virgin bed must be preserved."

**_Temperance_**

Mountains of grapes, redder than wine, as purple as heraldic shields. Plums and pomes, apples and apricots, dipped delicately in honey. Strawberries, bathed in pink-tinged cream and sugar. Akkadian dates and figs. Illyrian oranges, tangerines and clementines. Siovalese Peaches, with a virgin blush upon them. All, the freshest produce of the fresh fields, to put back the bloom in fatherless little Ysandre's pale cheeks.

Seventeen-year-old Melisande Shahrizai, widow to the wealthy Baron de Reinne, quips dryly, "When offered a choice between a beauteous Illyrian princess and a hatchet-faced Stergazza, Prince Benedicte chose the latter. Better tables that sing under the weight of good cheer than a songstress in the bed. The Dauphine looks to follow in his footprints."

She is now Terre d'Ange's precious Dauphine, blossom of the realm, the only cygnet of House de la Courcel. Temperance does not come into the question.

**000**

"Venison." Suriah wrinkles her nose, waving away the servitor. She contents herself with nibbling - daintily of course, it is indeed a pleasure to watch an adept of Cereus House dine - on a sallut of greens. "I'm growing fat," she says petulantly, when Phèdre stares, over a well-heaped plate. "I won't reach my goal this way."

"Your goal? Isn't that your marque?"

"Oh yes, that," Suriah says indifferently. "Naturally. But I had a bet with Richa nó Jasmine, to see who'd have the smallest waist by Midwinter. I'm nineteen inches, and she's seventeen..." She frowns. "You'd best be minding what you eat too, child as you are. It's never too early to learn temperance."

_**Diligence**_

"It's lucky you are that you weren't indentured to Eglantine House," Juliette says dryly. "Blessed Elua, you can hardly hem a handkerchief!"

Phèdre sticks out her tongue. "The Servants of Naamah are not known for their skill by needle."

Etienne patiently rips out Phèdre's crooked stitches. "All knowledge is worth having, the Dowayne said."

"Much the Dowayne knows," mutters Phèdre with feigned bravery. "_I _shall pay for my marque with my skills in the bedchamber and you, Madame Juliette, may pay for it by your threadwork."

Juliette wonders how she intends to earn a marque at all - with her House yet undecided, and that passing strange mote in her eye, but she holds her tongue. Phèdre runs out, to climb pear trees and trail after scullery maids and tangle her curls and ribbons in hawthorne branches. Without Brother Louvel's stories or one of the older adepts to rein her in, she flits to and fro as she pleases.

**000**

"The fruit of the future is rooted in the soil of history." Ysandre finishes reciting Emperor Augustinus' famous speech, in flawless Caerdicci. The task - it was a five-page long speech - would have done credit to a woman ten years older than the Dauphine.

Her Grand Mistress nods grudgingly. Cherishing doth mar children. Praise falls from her lips as scantily as rain falls on the Akkadian desert. "Satisfactory," she allows herself to say. "Your diligence pleases me."

Ysandre glows with delight.

**_Kindness_**

There is a letter, sealed with black wax an inch deep, for Auriga de Chariot, one of the Dauphine's little companions. Sidelong glances are exchanged, the schoolroom is disrupted. The baronne, head bowed, begs leave to depart.

"News from Kusheth?" Ysandre asks crisply, eyes sweeping over her scandal-scarred attendant. "Of your father?"

"So please Your Highness, he has been executed at the City of Elua. This morning." For rape, the sin of sins in Terre D'Ange.

_You were given a household, granddaughter, to adapt yourself to the mastership of command. From the canapés to be served at your receptions to the morals instilled in your companions, I expect you to take charge. _She is armoured in self-righteousness. Sanctimony. "Would you weep fruitless tears, Lady Auriga? T'would be a sin, to my seeming. The baron-" her lip curls -"was not worthy his title or noble lineage. To spend tears on such-" She shakes her head. "I would require the pleasure of your company in the schoolroom this morning."

"Yes, My Lady," and Auriga sits down to Hellenic poetry as though her heart is not breaking.

Princesses cannot afford to be kind.

**000**

In his first season, Yannic nó Cereus was the very rose of his House - fragile as a Ch'in vase, with the ivory outlines of a Kusheline noblewoman. His rose-red lips, that Elua seemed to have fashioned only for kisses, spat forth coarse oaths as efficiently as any old sea-dog could have done.

"Would to Naamah, my marque was made!" he would say wistfully. "I am sick and weary of panting under the weight of sagging flesh, of sucking at powdered-" He stops, regarding his eager audience of children. "Nothing that you won't have to do when your time comes."

"Your marque is hardly limned," Juliette reminded him with brutal honesty. "And even after it is, what will you do? Open a salon? Stay at Cereus and tithe your portion? You'll still have to-"

"Ignorant gosling. Once the tapper's etched the last whorl and curlique, it's off for me to Azzalle and the sea!" His eyes shine. "Hearty wenches, pirates and the salted air - what more can a man need?"

_And you, learned only in the Trots Milles Joies. _Juliette opens her mouth to deliever a harsh truth with engaging sweetness - that is the way they are taught at Cereus - and Phèdre stamps on her foot. "Remember to bring us back something from the sea," she says brightly.

He smiles. "Ah, sweetling, how could I forget? Coral beads to match your unforgettable eyes."

_Unforgettable. _Not flawed - unforgettable. Kindness breeds kindness, Phèdre learns.

**_Humility_**

She sweeps into a room and there is no one who can deny her presence. They rise, to bow and to curtsey, to doff their hats and bend their knees at the violet flash of their princess's eye. They are compelled to it. She is born to it, it is bred in her blood and her bones.

"Ah... child. How you have grown." The Lioness of Azzalle chucks her chin. Chuckles softly.

"Grand Aunt." Her voice is dressed with sweetness, sharp with reprimand. "You forget the proprieties."

"Oh, _that_." Yes, that. The Duchesse de Trevalion and the Dauphine. Blue-and-silver brocade skirts swept back in a deep, old-fashioned curtsey. The pale little head, with it's crocus-coloured coif, is inclined graciously. Resentment brewed in a violet glance between the two de la Courcel princesses.

"You're growing up aren't you, dear? We'll see you married soon, Elua grant us that."

"Grandfather will secure a fair alliance."

"What, talk of alliances already! My dear, you forget our motto - love as thou wilt."

"Quite the contrary, dear aunt. I will love whoever will ally himself with me and my throne."

"Charming," Lyonette murmurs. "You remind one so of your cherished mother." She kisses the girl's brow. "Watch yourself, little L'Envers Princess."

**000**

They are of Cereus House. Trained to melt into the walls, to be part of a crowd, a landscape. The most delicate flowers of the Night-Blooming Court.

Phèdre counts the minutes till the hour hand will strike. The children are trained to kneel _abeyante _for hours, on cushions.

_Whore's unwanted get, _she has to remind herself when she begins to fidget. _Whore's unwanted get. _

Humility is bred into her bones. That doesn't mean she has to like it.


End file.
